Holly's Christmas Countdown Read online

  Holly’s Christmas Countdown

  Suzie Tullett

  Copyright © 2020 Suzie Tullett

  The right of Suzie Tullett to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN 978-1-913942-07-6

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  Also by Suzie Tullett

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by Suzie Tullett

  The Trouble With Words

  Little White Lies and Butterflies

  The French Escape

  Six Steps To Happiness

  For my sister Jane

  Thank you for all your support, for cheering me on and most of all, for keeping me sane.

  Your words of wisdom and thumbs up selfies will be forever remembered.

  1

  Eight days until Christmas

  “What do you think?” I held a yellow, sleeveless shift dress against my body. It had hung in my wardrobe for months; an impulse buy that I still wasn’t sure my legs could carry off. I’d bought it after catching sight of myself in a shop mirror and realising I looked more like a fifteen-year-old Rebel Wilson than the grown woman I was meant to be.

  I decided there and then that I needed an overhaul and grabbed the first colourful item of clothing to hand. Hence, the yellow dress. I frowned. Despite any good intentions, that was as far as any supposed change went.

  Standing there in my bedroom looking at myself once more, I wished I’d seen that revamp through. With less than a week until my holiday, I looked no different in that moment than I had back in the summer. I sighed, considering whether the dress really merited packing space, before turning to my sister for her opinion. “What do you think, Vee?” I asked.

  Out of the two of us, I’d always been the geek, preferring to lose myself in a good book as opposed to some glossy fashion magazine. I tended to live in jeans, T-shirts and pumps, and while my overgrown mop of hair was treated to the odd cut, it had never so much as had a hint of colour near it. I was the same when it came to make-up. Apart from a touch of mascara and lip gloss, I didn’t really bother. Unless I was on a night out. Then I jazzed things up with a stroke of eyeliner.

  Vee, on the other hand, had always been a fashionista. Even at eight months pregnant she could have been a model. She was lucky to have inherited Mum’s tall, eat all you want, you won’t gain an ounce physique. It was no wonder Vee made the perfect clothes horse. Unlike me, who took after our father. I looked down at the dress once more telling myself I wasn’t fat, I was big-boned. “Yes or no?” I asked my sister.

  Vee sat on the bed next to my suitcase, busy tidying its contents to make room for the handful of books I hoped to squeeze in. It was clear she hadn’t heard me, that her mind was elsewhere. Baby brain, my brother-in-law called it, something to do with lower concentration levels in expectant mothers, which, of course, Mitch would know all about. The man seemed to have devoured every pregnancy book on the market and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he were prepping to deliver the baby himself. When it came to his wife’s gestation Mitch was a walking, talking encyclopaedia, with no qualms about sharing his knowledge with the rest of us. When listening to him, I might have admired his dedication, but the number of times my eyes had glazed over made me wonder if baby brain was catching.

  “Vee?” I said, wanting to get on with the task at hand.

  Finally, she looked up. “Ooh, yes,” she said, nodding as I indicated the dress. “That colour’s perfect with a tan.”

  I wrinkled my nose, still not keen. “You don’t think it’s too short for knees like these?”

  Vee glanced at my patella and rolled her eyes. “No, Holly. It’s fine.”

  Although not convinced, I still passed it over, preferring to focus on the bronzed glow that Vee mentioned. I saw myself applying sun cream and catching rays as I lay on a sun-drenched beach; and pictured myself swimming in a vast expanse of glistening blue sea. I couldn’t wait to shed my woolly jumpers and cardigans, don my swimsuit, and charge towards the water’s edge ready to dive straight in. Almost able to feel the sunshine on my skin, I knew that time away from Britain’s damp, cold winter weather was just what my body and soul needed. I was about to enjoy a Christmas to remember. The countdown was on.

  While Vee folded the dress and put it in the case, I reached into the wardrobe once more. “And this?” I grinned as I pulled out a maxi navy-blue boat neck. Not only was it beautiful, unlike the yellow number, it was the perfect length for hiding stocky knees. It was also my pièce de résistance, which I intended on saving for the last evening of my trip. Just because I had to start my holiday looking like an ugly duckling didn’t mean I couldn’t end it as a swan.

  Not usually one for clothes, as soon as I’d seen that navy-blue dress, I knew I had to have it. And after ten days of rest, recuperation, and self-reflection, wearing that dress would be symbolic. Transformation complete, it represented out with the old, and in with the new.

  My sister’s whole demeanour sprang to life, as she took in the smooth silky fabric. “Wow!” she said. “That would look fabulous with a pair of flat sandals.” She held out her hands to take it. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Isn’t it?” I replied. “It’s the one thing I bought especially, although I shouldn’t have. It cost a fortune, which, no doubt, means a few less cocktails while I’m away.”

  “Oh, the sacrifice.”

  “I know.” I put the back of my hand against my forehead, feigning despair as I looked to the ceiling. “How will I cope?” I paused, waiting for Vee to chuckle at my attempt at melodrama. But instead of finding it a
musing, she fell quiet, leaving me stood there like an unappreciated thespian. Wondering why the silence, I diverted my gaze to see Vee’s face crumple. “What is it?” I asked. Dropping my hand, my smile vanished. “You’re not in any pain, are you?”

  My pulse quickened at Vee’s failure to respond and feeling panicky, I told myself the dress wasn’t that exciting, her contractions couldn’t have started. With me about to head off on holiday, Christmas around the corner, and the baby not due for another month, the last thing anyone needed was Vee going into labour. I watched her inhale, clearly trying to compose herself, but her action did nothing to ease my racing mind. As much as I looked forward to becoming an aunty, if things were moving on that front, I had no desire to play midwife. I, too, took a deep breath and thanking goodness I knew a man who did, grabbed my phone off the dressing table. “I’ll ring Mitch?”

  “No!” Vee said, putting a hand up to stop me. “There’s no need. I’m fine.”

  I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen. “Really? Because you don’t look it.”

  “Honestly. It’s not the baby.”

  “Then what is it?” I asked, my nerves frazzled.

  “Nothing,” Vee said. “I’m just being soft.” She rubbed her belly. “I mean, look at me. I’m obese.” She indicated the navy boat neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever wear a dress like this again.”

  I stared at my sister, unable to believe she almost gave me a heart attack over a bit of fabric. But taking in Vee’s pitiful demeanour, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that. The last thing I wanted was to cause any more upset, or worse still, set off her contractions for real. And I most certainly didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I thought back to the occasions when Vee had supported me through the odd wardrobe meltdown, and it wasn’t as if I’d ever had pregnancy as an excuse. Sympathy enveloped me and tossing my phone on the bed, I sat down next to her. “Vee, you’re four weeks away from giving birth.”

  “Doesn’t stop me wishing I wasn’t the size of a house, though, does it?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. The size of any kind of building my sister was not.

  “It’s not funny, Holly.” Vee let out a mournful sigh as she looked down at her bump. “I’m beginning to wonder what’s in there. An elephant? I’m surprised Mitch can bear to look at me, I can hardly look at myself these days.”

  It was strange to hear Vee talk like that. My sister might have always had a figure to die for, but she never paid it any attention, good or bad; it was me, with my fuller figure, who did all the complaining. Plus, everyone knew Vee’s husband adored her. Forget her belly, my sister could’ve grown a humongous second head and Mitch would have still loved her.

  Looking at her, I wanted to believe it was her hormones talking. According to Doctor Mitch these fluctuated during a woman’s third trimester. Apparently, as her body prepared for birth mood swings were to be expected. But her comments felt too out of character for Vee and I found myself wondering if my latest relationship disaster was, at least in part, to blame for her distress. “This isn’t because of what happened with you know who, is it?” I asked. “Because Mitch isn’t like Jeremy.”

  Pictures of the last time I saw Jeremy flooded my mind. Him and some bint, both butt-naked on my bed. I still couldn’t believe the two-timing so-and-so hadn’t taken her to his own house, whether he still lived with his mother or not. Shuddering, I shook the memory away as best as I could. I’d needed a new mattress anyway; and Jeremy and his bit-on-the side had taken up too much of my headspace already.

  I reached out to Vee with a comforting hand. “Mitch would never… You do know that, don’t you?” Not sure who needed the reassurance more, me or my sister, I hated to think my track record in men had, in some warped, prenatal way, affected Vee’s confidence.

  She lifted her gaze to look at me, outrage written all over her face.

  With Vee’s disposition changing from one second to the next, I realised my brother-in-law might have had a point on the mood swing front and for my sake as much as my sister’s, I slid my palm back to safety and shifted away from her slightly. “Good,” I said, with no choice but to let the matter drop.

  She turned her attention back to the suitcase.

  “Because you and Mitch are like Mum and Dad. In it for the long haul.”

  She gave me another look. “I thought you were trying to cheer me up?”

  I pictured our parents out and about, loud and proud in their matching outfits, realising that might not have been the most comforting comparison to make. For either of us, being likened to Mum and Dad was a fate too disturbing to contemplate. While the rest of the world seemed to consider our parents harmless yet eccentric, to my sister and I they were plain and simple barking. Then again, I often wondered if we all were. When it came to my family, there was never a dull moment between us.

  Vee remained unamused and I couldn’t help but think there was more going on in that head of hers, that there was something she wasn’t telling me. “Anything you want to talk about?” I asked, making sure to keep my voice light.

  “What do you mean?” she said, dismissive. “Like what?”

  As much as she tried to hide it, I could see I’d touched a nerve, but, again, I didn’t push. Instead, I stood up and taking my sister’s hands, hoisted her onto her feet. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “For a cup of tea.” I nodded to the packing. “That can wait. We’ll do it later.”

  2

  I stood at the front door waving Vee off as she drove away. It was going dark by then and the whole village looked magical. Brightly lit Christmas trees shone in the windows of neighbouring cottages, twinkling fairy lights wove through gardens, and an assortment of jovial plastic Santas and wicker scarf-wearing reindeers sat at gates ready to greet visitors. What with going away, I hadn’t seen the point in glad-ragging my own house and as I turned to go back inside, I smiled at the comparison. There was no denying mine looked positively bah humbug! as a result.

  I had a spring in my step as I made my way down the hall to the kitchen. Not only had I survived my sister’s little meltdown and soothed her back to her usual placid self, I only had a few more days at work to get through, before jetting off to spend Christmas in the sun. I couldn’t wait.

  A picture of Mum and Dad popped into my head. Guilt, I realised, for abandoning them during the festive period, something no family member had ever dared do before. It was a choice that would, without doubt, go down in the annals of Noelle family history, but I refused to let that ruin my excitement. As a woman who’d never put a foot outside of Europe, I looked forward to venturing further afield. Not even my parents could have stopped me ending that year with a bang.

  I thought back to the first time I realised my parents weren’t quite like everyone else’s and while they’d proven themselves to be quirkier than most many times since, it was during a primary school nativity that their uniqueness first hit home. Vee played the angel on account of her being angelic; while I had the role of guiding star for being less so. Unlike Vee, I didn’t have a speaking part. Wearing a gold four-pointed tabard, with a matching pointy hat to complete my star shape, all I had to do was stand on a huge box at the back of the stage and enjoy proceedings. Apart from the bit where Balthazar, one of the three wise men, forgot his lines, everything seemed to go to plan.

  That was until the headmistress took her seat at the piano and commenced the intro to Away in a Manger, one of my parents’ all-time favourite Christmas songs. It appeared Mum and Dad weren’t content to simply listen to me and the cast do the singing as outlined in the script and much to my bewilderment they rose to their feet ready to join in. Their action caused some confusion amongst the rest of the audience, although Dad waved his arms around encouraging all the other parents to join in and it wasn’t long before they all stood up too.

  Mum and Dad’s voices rang out far above everyone else’s and it soon became clear they were singing a complete
ly different rendition to the one being played by the headmistress. My parents seemed to have gone for a more classical version. Their harmonising and operatic tones didn’t just attract attention; they put everyone else in the room off their vocal stride. Fellow nativity cast members started to giggle. And there was no denying the look of frustration that crossed the headmistress’s face as she sped up on the piano keys. Unfortunately, the whole song turned into a hot discordant mess until the very last note and the only people who didn’t seem to notice the musical fracas were Mum and Dad.

  I shook my head, dismissing the recollection as I entered the kitchen, supposing I should think about dinner. Although there wasn’t much to consider. There’d been no point doing a proper shop when I wouldn’t be around to eat most of it. Opening the fridge, however, I sighed in disappointment. Things were worse than I’d thought. The shelves were bare apart from a microwave curry, eggs, cheese, and half a bag of spinach.

  I picked up the ready meal and stared at the image on its packaging – chunks of melt-in-the-mouth chicken, smothered in a rich, creamy masala sauce. My belly grumbled, but more in protest than hunger, as if it knew the photograph breached the Trade Descriptions Act as the meal’s contents would resemble nothing of the sort. “Pizza it is,” I said, swinging the fridge door shut.